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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26546377">The Curious Case of Matilda May</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orillia_Blue1826/pseuds/Orillia_Blue1826'>Orillia_Blue1826</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Doctor John Watson, Found Family, Gen, John Watson - Freeform, Mild Angst, OC, Platonic Relationships, Platonic Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes &amp; John Watson Friendship, Sherlock fanfic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 07:40:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,705</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26546377</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orillia_Blue1826/pseuds/Orillia_Blue1826</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"They say blood is thicker than water but, maple syrup is thicker than blood. Therefore my loyalties lie with pancakes."</p>
<p>January 23rd, 2012. Matilda "Zephyr" May (LNU) is quite the unusual child. Her keen mind and incredible foresight, aid her inquisitive nature. Zephyr's had a...problematic life, one that's left numerous scars. However her life is changed forever when she's adopted by Dr. John Watson and Mary Morstan. Her somewhat reserved but cynical judgment of others reminds John of his former partner. As Zephyr's new parents bond with their daughter, they realize much of the child's history is steeped in mystery. She's a curious case.</p>
<p>Disclaimer: I don't own the characters from BBC Sherlock (2010) only Matilda and other oc's.</p>
<p>Rated M - for murder.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>None</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Warnings: hints at abuse.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="">
  <p>The waiting room was nothing like she'd imagined it being. It was small and crowded. Crowded with sick adults and sick children. It appeared each and every seat was filled by someone. Not everyone was sick but they were clearly afflicted with some sort of ailment or issue, very few appeared to only be in for a casual check up. Every now and then a nurse would come call out a name and off the patient in question went. They'd disappear behind the plain painted blue doors.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>At least the waiting room had some form of entertainment for the young children. A small flat screen hanging from the wall about the children's area. She'd seen it on her way in, mutedly broadcasting Peppa Pig, that hadn't interested her in the slightest. Instead she focused her attention on the floor, head down trying to bring as little attention to herself as she possibly could.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>She didn't dare touch the toys. Not only were they colourfully decorated breeding grounds for germs, they weren't hers. And she'd been rigorously taught, never touch what doesn't belong to you.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>So she sat. Sat amongst the grownups in the room. Her neighbour seated to her right a complete stranger seated to her left.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>A sharp acidic smell burned her nostrils. An unmistakable mixture of both cheap booze and classless cigarettes. She had a hunch the foul smelling stranger beside her engaged in the distasteful hobbies as her father.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>She wanted to look, to just sneak a peek at the person beside her, but again that was something she knew better than to do. So she kept her eyes, those deep, earthy brown orbs, trained on her old trainers. They were so worn, her big toe was pushing its way through her right toe cap.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>All she could do was sit and listen to the gentle repetitive tune of the wait rum music. It's soft rhythmic hum provided some comfort. It was enough to relax the poor girl's tense muscles. She didn't want to be there. She couldn't be there. But there she was and she felt utterly sick.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It was her well to do neighbour who'd made the appointment. The young woman claimed she wanted to ease some of the weight off the girl's busy father's shoulders. The child had had questions but thought it better not to ask them. She should have been more bold. Then perhaps she wouldn't be there.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Her neighbour, Cartia Hennigan, was a lovely young woman approaching her early thirties. She often meant well but had a tendency to overstep her bounds. Nonetheless, the little girl couldn't help but feel pity for the woman. Cartia, all her kindness and charity was nothing more than a façade, covering her great loneliness.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The little girl twiddles her thumbs, replaying the unfortunate event that landed her little butt in the stiff plastic chair. <em>I have to be less of myself</em>, she swore, <em>this never would have happened if I had.</em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. Her forehead throbbed, as if her brain was protesting. Her rational analysis was fighting against her self blame. She massaged her temple with her left index and middle fingers, pressing her right arm tightly against her stomach. It didn't help.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>She sat straight, mimicking the posture of a proud queen, eyes still shut, she placed her palms on her knees gripping the fabric of her pant leg. In times of great distress she often found it best to disappear. Unfortunately, unlike the deep sea pelagic octopod she couldn't actually become invisible. She could retreat to the quiet sanctity of her own mind.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Some people retreat to what they call a "happy place". Her? Well... At least she had some place all her own, where the world would slowly fade away.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>"Matilda Hennigan.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Her little head flew up, eyes snapping to the kindly nurse standing in the door separating the waiting room from the rest of the clinic.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Her eyes darted to Cartia who was already standing, walking toward the blue, aluminum trim door. Her eyes widened, pupils anxiously constricting, she quickly pushed herself out of her seat then hurriedly followed after her neighbor.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>When she finally reached the door she cast one more nervous glance up at her neighbor. "Shall we?" the nurse smiles warmly and holds the door open wider for the two to enter.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <strong>JWJWJW</strong>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Matilda sat on at the practice table hands folded like so, neatly rested on her lap. She had to admit this wasn't going as terrible as she'd originally envisioned it going. From what her father had told her, the doctors clinic was an utterly awful place reserved for terrible, no good people. And Matilda was certain she wasn't a terrible person. Or at least she tried not to be.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Her dad mustn't have done his research or had to have been thinking of another clinic. This one was adequate.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The nurse was nice enough. Mary? Yes, that was her name.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>She was kind, she made the tedious tests Matilda was forced to endure more bearable. She'd commented on how cute Matilda purple pink polka dotted leggings were. And even promised the little girl a lollipop before she left.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Mary did however seem suspicious when Cartia explained the reason for her bringing Matilda to the clinic in the first place. Matilda wasn't sure why, maybe the explanation sounded weird. It was rather silly. She shouldn't have been playing so close to the stairs.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Matilda tried not to vocalise her disappointment when Mary left to retrieve the doctor, but failed accidentally letting slip a small puppy like whimper. It was unintentional and it bothered her.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Now she sat in the room, not quite alone, with her neighbour. Matilda hated the dressing gown. It left her exposed, back half vulnerable and visible.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>At the very least if she moved in front of the mirror she could count how many freckles dotted her skin back there. Maybe like her forehead, nose, and cheeks they formed shapes in a connect the dots kind of way.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Matilda pushes herself up and jumps to the floor. Pain sliced upward like a swift blade through her left ankle. This unbalanced her making her landing less than perfect she ignored the feeling knowing the pain would subside momentarily. Then under the critically watchful eyes of Cartia, she pressed forward across the room toward the only thing that interested her. At least now that Mary was gone.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It was like most things in the public clinic, cheap, only standing about two Tildas tall. Matilda, standing a little less than an arms length away from the mirror, extended an arm gently resting her hand on the smooth reflective glass. It felt cool, good against her skin.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>She stared at her reflection, eyes narrowing. She angled her body to one side. She didn't get why both Cartia and Mary seemed worried. She thought she looked fine.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Two rich brown eyes sparkled back at her - the colour of the earth after long torrential rains. Freckles dotted her face, like a chaotic mess of chipped marble. Matilda loved her freckles. A tumble of stringy blonde hair, with dark brown roots, messily pulled back into a low lopsided pony-tail hung between her shoulder blades. Yeah she looked fine.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Hold on. Matilda rolled her tongue across her cheek. There was a jagged cut that'd scabbed over on the right side of her temple, giving her a Harry Potter esque mark.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Matilda frowned, noticing the somewhat sickening shade of blackish blue on her skin, creeping out from beneath the neck lining of her dressing gown. Matilda pulled her collar down revealing a dark purple bruise spreading from the lower half of her neck to her shoulder.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Matilda could feel a lump form in her throat. Still... nothing to worry about. Bruises fade. She shouldn't have played so close to the stairs.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <strong>JWJWJW</strong>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Matilda heard the door open and shut, it's swift creaking noise made her arms go rigid.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The Doctor entered in a cable crew neck sweater and dark almost black jeans, his pepper salted hair was closely cropped. He had a face like some guy that'd seen much pain, and suffered much loss.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>"Hello." Greeting the two, he had the posture of a soldier but after shaking hands with Cartia he visibly relaxed. "What's your name?" His voice came out like he'd just pulled a double shift the day prior, only functioning because he was running on six cups of tea.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Whilst he exchanged casual pleasantries Cartia, Matilda mindfully walked around him back to her seat at the practice table.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>She knew how to keep a poker face, even in uncomfortable situations. As she went she observed the doctor carefully, eyes critically analysing every last detail of the pale man. Matilda bit her inner cheek. She'd found it was always best to keep her final findings to herself. Kept her out of trouble.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dr. Watson gave a brief look at his clipboard before turning to Matilda. Already still, she felt a tight knot form in her chest, under his gaze. He knelt in front of Matilda, allowing her to see the stethoscope draped round his neck. Her first thought, strangulation hazard.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>She leaned back sitting further in your seat. "Hey there, you must be Matilda." Her breathing stopped momentarily as the man extended his hand out for her to shake. "What a lovely name." He gave her a smile that just seemed so genuinely sweet. "I'm your doctor, Doctor Watson."</p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So here’s the prologue of my Sherlock story. It’s shorter compared to the next chapter I’m currently working on. If there are any triggers please tell me so I can add them to the tags. I haven’t edited it yet so take all typos and grammar mistakes with a grain of salt.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>It's been two weeks since John took Matilda in as his foster child. She's still distrustful. Unsure whether it’s actually worth it to build a relationship with her foster father.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="">
  <p>Eyes a hickory as rich as the earth's soil blew open constricting in the illuminated void.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Matilda stood on a pristine reflective surface, icy chills one after the other creeped up her spine. Her body stood rigid and up right as straight as a stone pillar. The space around her was pitch black save for a single indeterminate white light source that illuminated the area. It seemed she was stuck in a void, an endless expanse of nothingness for miles and miles.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Compelled by some unknown force Matilda began to move forward. Under the weight of her soles the surface rippled. Was it water? It appeared to be liquid glass. A thin cool layer that furrowed and waved with each step. She moved forward at a slow pace, one foot after the other. The silence of the inky void made her blood as cold as the murky waters of Antarctica.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>In the black she could sense a seed growing in the pit of her stomach, in her core she knew the feeling. It felt as much a part of her, as the heart drumming in her chest. Under Matilda's lightly freckled exterior, beneath the anxiety, she was... It didn't matter. It doesn't matter. She chose to ignore the feeling. there was nothing that could be done about it. Not now.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Matilda didn't need to look, she kept moving forward. She knew left, right, forward, and back there was nothing. She stood alone in the black nothingness.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The darkness swirled around her petite form pricking her pale skin. A chilling draught of air bit at her nape. It blew in from the west or... perhaps the East. She couldn't be sure. Matilda cautiously turned her head to look over her shoulder. She sensed— she could feel... Matilda brought a single hand to the back of her neck.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Yep.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The hairs stood on end. She stopped dead in her tracks, making a complete 180, the water rippled beneath her.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <strong>Bam, bam, bam.</strong>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Adrenaline shot through her system. It pumps and beats like it's trying to break through her chest. Matilda's eyes grew wide with fear. Every instinct she had screamed either run fast or curl up in a defensive ball and take whatever came. Matilda usually favored, was the latter. But something told her this time it was better to run— smarter to run.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <strong>Bam, bam, bam.</strong>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>She ran bare feet slapping the reflective ground. The cold air cut her throat as she inhaled deeper and faster. Matilda never was much of a runner. Her short legs betrayed her. She punched away into the darkness, haring forward. She could hear the loud pounding gaining, closing the distance between her and it.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <strong>Bam, bam, bam.</strong>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Aimlessly she sprinted forward. She recognized the sound. It poured gasoline onto the spark of fear stabbing between her ribs. Fear torched her guts, churning her stomach in tense cramps. Her lungs began to burn making Matilda's breathing shaky and labored. Her legs felt like churning cement.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <strong>Bam, bam, bam.</strong>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Matilda's feet slipped out from under her. The world rushed by in a blur and she knew the pain was coming. The world went by fast, yet slow, almost suspended. Then impact. Every muscle in her body knotted up, weighed down by the icy hands of the darkness and exhaustion.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The sound was closing in, so loud now it made her ears bleed. The wind viciously blew in from behind, howl more like a wicked cackle.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Matilda pushed herself up on all fours. She couldn't bare to stand all the way but she had to move. She couldn't allow the pursuer to catch her. She couldn't. Desperately she crawled forward.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p><strong>Bam, bam, bam, bam,</strong> <strong>bam...</strong> crack.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Looking down from her place in the void, Matilda tried to steady herself trying to comprehend what was going on around her. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes as she eyed her reflection beneath her. Hesitantly she presses a trembling hand against the cold liquid glass. The pounding ebbed into nothingness until, until silence was as absolute as space.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Matilda stared entranced by her reflection. A paralyzing hurt spread through her body like sharp, liquid metal. The face staring up at her was foreign, new. She couldn't hear her rapid breathing, ignored the fogging up of the surface from her warm breath.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>A child stared up at her. Her eyes are a bold cunning brown, the color of dark chocolate, and her neat, earth after rain brown hair pushed back by a red headband. Her pale skin was a canvas for her numerous freckles, as if some one had strewn brown chips of marble about frivolously. She wore a dress that stopped above her knees — blood red.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The reflection wasn't hers.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Matilda's eyes, a weak shade of brown, were dim, the color of dying candle, and her curled dirty blonde hair slowly browning from the roots hung in matted knots. Her skin while pale was marked purple and blue in spots, her freckles were rather small and barely visible unless she purposely dotted them with markers. She too wore a dress, however it was one of a different style and the color — envy green.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Fear curled up inside her and clung to her ribs, settling uncomfortably in her chest. She began to inch back away from the inaccurate reflection.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Crack. A long thin crack followed her and her reflection, growing with each move backward. She immediately ceased her movement. It was too late the crack continued to creep across the surface, sounding like the crushing of bones. It worked and slithers branching off in different directions until it created a circle trapping Matilda in the center. Three large splits fractured the face of her reflection.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Certain the breakage was through, Matilda cautiously stood. Her legs were like jello but she managed. Looking around she saw no way out. No matter where she stepped the ground would break out from beneath her.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <strong>BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM!</strong>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>She stood hand covering her ears, in the middle of the void that had become her world, a world decorated by it's own broken cracks. Her brown eyes flickered out, becoming full, glossy. Then all at once she collapsed, tears flowed freely down her cheeks.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>She could call for help. What would be the point? Why ask for help when there's no one for miles, to hear you.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>In her distress she didn't notice the lone pale inky hand reaching from the depths of her liquid reflection. Icy fingers gripped her ankle in the darkness. Eyes fearfully widened, a gasp escaped her lips. In a moment of pure instinct she reached out, fingers extended.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>All at once the glass shattered below her. She opened her mouth to let out a desperate scream but all that came out was air. The realization flooded in, there was nothing to be done.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>She went silently. The last piece of her to drown, a hand, desperately reaching out.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <strong>JWJWJW</strong>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Waking up can be a kind gift, especially when nightmares fueled by her childish insecurities plagued her somnolent mind.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Matilda woke faster than a cat dropped ice-water, eyes flung so wide each iris was a perfect orb of rich hazelnut chocolate. She felt a sharp pain, like a knife, in her chest. It weighed on her, as if she were Giles Corey facing punishment. Cold sweat coated her skin giving it a texture. With a long exhale she felt her limbs flex in shock. Everything was blurry, her head spun. Images of her horrible dream echoed in the back of her head.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>She stole a glance at the clock on her end table, rhythmically ticking away the seconds. 1:37am. She blinked, closed her eyes, and blinked again. She wanted to scream, but that's not what she needed.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>She sat up, dragging her feet off the bed. Wrapping her upper body in her blanket, she got off bed, dragging the too large single sized blanket behind her. She yawned, ambling down the quiet corridor.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>She was only slightly surprised to find John, sitting alone in the dark family room, the dim light of his laptop softly illuminating his face. She had a feeling he'd be up. He always was, going over patient files preparing for his next work day. However he was usually in his room.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>She quietly shuffled into the kitchen, careful not to disturb John. She'd be quick, no reason to bother him. She'd get what she needed and return to her room.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Better to be self-reliant.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>She stood in the center of the flat's small kitchen, where a kitchen island would be if there was room. Around her shoulders her blanket, worn like a cape, trailed behind her like a wedding train. She sucked on her middle and index fingers, eyes glued on a particular cabinet.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>I did this earlier, she recalled. Her eyes bounced around the room, looking for things that could help her situation. She couldn't replicate her trick from breakfast, everything had been moved over the course of the day. The step stool was missing. She needed to think of something. Matilda could hardly reach the counter top on her own. Peanut.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Focusing, Matilda drew in her lower lip. Her eyes lit up, idea after idea flooded her brain, streaming. Her eyes narrowed in deep concentration, as she flipped through her concepts as if they were pages in a toy catalogue.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p><em>No, no, no, wait... </em>she paused. A particular idea was formulating in the back of her head. <em>Doable, a bit chancy.</em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Matilda was wrong. (In more ways than one.) John wasn't up going over patient files, well not every night. In the dark room, sitting on the sofa, his typing had a relaxing sound. He'd drowned out the furious noise of the rain thunder against the window panes ages ago. The darkness in a way had become his sanctuary, a place to recharge and forget. Forget about things, people time had abandoned.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>His eyes scanned his screen, and read through the typed out text.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>"He hasn't got a clue! He's flummoxed! He's bamboozled!</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>He's stuck...”</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>03, August. The words awakened old memories he couldn't bring himself to forget. All memories come with a price. Good or bad. You can't go back and fix them. You can't go back and relieve them. As much as you wish you could.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>"According to the flight details, he was checked on board. They found the stub of his boarding pass and napkins etc on his body. His passport has been stamped in Berlin Airport. He should have died in the plane crash. But he didn't.</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>He was in a car boot. In Surrey.</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Obviously, I haven't got a clue but neither does..."</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He clapped down the laptop. <em>That's enough for now.</em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Out of complete silence arose a loud clatter, the sound metal colliding against wood. "What the hell?" John quietly muttered, silently cursing as he got up to investigate.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Following the sound he found himself in the kitchen.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Matilda was on her knees back to him rummaging through the lower shelf of one of the cabinets. A mess of pots and pans was chaotically sprawled out across the kitchen tile, the largest pile up blew the counter where Matilda was kneeling. It didn't take a high functioning sociopath to deduce what had happened.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>"Matilda what are you doing?!" The little girl froze, all of her muscles went tight. "You can't be climbing on the counter, it's not safe." John took her under the armpits and set her on the ground. She did not like that. As soon as John let her go, she corrected herself. She stood straight, arms at her side ready to take whatever John doled out.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Her brain was a beehive, a buzz with thoughts. She didn't mean to make him upset. She just needed to calm her head after the bad dream. Her heart felt tight. Her breathing became more rapid, more shallow. Her hands like claws ran through her hair pushing back her hair.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>"You could have seriously hurt yourself," John went on.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Thoughts accelerated in her head. Too many, too fast. She squatted, sitting criss-cross on the floor, trying to make everything slow to a pace her young brain and body could handle.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>John's scolding wasn't loud; he had neighbors and thin walls. For Matilda however his voice was so harsh it rivaled gunfire. "What were you thinking?!"</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He knew he'd overstepped when he looked down to see the small girl curled up in her blanket like an armadillo. She was curled up in the fetal position eyes trained forward, completely glazed over.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>"Matilda? Matilda?" John softened his tone, carefully kneeling beside her. "Sweetie I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to raise my voice." Matilda remained unresponsive. He'd have assumed she was dead if not for the repetitive rise and fall of her stomach from beneath the blanket.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He waited. The rain floated down the window pane in gentle waves, the pitter patter is a soft form of music. Pellets of water plink across the asphalt scattering puddles all round the city. The gusting wind blew with great force rocking the trees carrying the droplets in diagonal sheets. He sat in the darkness tenderly stroking back Matilda's browning dirty blonde hair.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>John half-asleep woke to the sound of gentle lilt. From Matilda came a humming sound. Her eyes mindlessly darted around the room, never settling on a particular spot. She was chewing on some of her hair, a habit that appeared to be calming her down.</p>
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  <p>After a while Matilda went quiet, pupils fixing on the man beside sitting on the floor beside her. She pushed the hair out of her mouth. Her voice was quiet when she spoke.</p>
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  <p>"Can I have hot cocoa... Please?”</p>
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  <p>
    <strong>JWJWJW</strong>
  </p>
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  <p>Was it the best parenting decision, agreeing to let a young child have a rich mug of hot chocolate before returning to bed? Perhaps not. Did it settle the child's shot nerves, melting them like fondue. The little girl swore by the creamy beverage, claiming it was often the simplest things that brought her comfort. Hot chocolate, her comfort beverage.</p>
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  <p>Matilda sat at the overhang counter, feet dangling over the edge of her seat. She had proved not to be one of those children. You know, the ones who ask every minute "is it done yet?" She wasn't one of those kids. She held herself poised, trying to forget the previous moments events.</p>
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  <p>Matilda had thoughtlessly been twiddling her thumbs, chewing the inside of her cheek. <em>"Why are you so a miss? You in all your faults. You're a loon, a weirdo, a mistake."</em> There it went, her studio inner dialogue, it was never her friend. She didn't have friends. <em>"Can't even handle a measly nightmare. Such a frea—"</em></p>
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  <p>"Matilda," John's voice saved her from her own thoughts. "Here you go, lovely." Matilda flashes him a smile, not a scared one but too tired to be considered a genuine smile.</p>
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  <p>He placed a mug in front of her. It was the first time he'd been able to make her hot chocolate since he'd taken her in. Despite John repeatedly telling her that his microwave was better than stovetop — and that she wasn't allowed to use the stove — she was inflexible.</p>
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  <p>Her eyes suspiciously narrowed, this was not her hot chocolate. "Thank you," she murmured, kindly accepting the mug. John chuckled softly, the child was too polite. From the slight crinkle up of her nose he could tell she was perplexed. He could see the little cogs in her brain spinning.</p>
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  <p><em>What's this?</em> She cutely tilted her head inspecting, the white whip dollop stacked on top of cocoa decorated with red rectangle flecks. She hesitantly sticks out her tongue, just barely touching it against the white whip. Chills.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>For a moment Matilda wraps her small hands around the ceramic mug, letting the heat warm her clammy palms. "Thank you," she repeated more sincerely this time. Leaving the mug, with some struggle she managed to get off the tall tool seat without help. She had every intention of retaking her mug — she'd finish the cocoa in the safety and security of her own room — however John picked up the mug before she had the chance.</p>
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  <p>Matilda bit her lip, nervously twisting the fabric of her pajama top. "Question for the cocoa," John bargained. Matilda's lips pressed together, turned down at the edges, and she nodded. "Why are you up?" He asked delicately.</p>
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  <p>Matilda's right eye twitched.</p>
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  <p>Understandably, Matilda was the most reserved and withdrawn child he had ever had the pleasure of meeting. She was nothing like the children who so boldly so curiously sought the council of Sherlock long ago. She kept to herself. Only speaking when it seemed polite or required.</p>
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  <p>"Truth please," John requested squatting so he was eye level with the 33.4" girl.</p>
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  <p>Her self-confidence was basically dead in the water at this point. It'd been brutally grabbed from behind and held under the drink against its will. Not that herself self-confidence had much of a will.</p>
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  <p>With a shaky sigh, she submitted. "I had a bad dream.</p>
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  <p>There was always an adorable yet heartbreaking timidness to her actions and mannerisms.</p>
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  <p>"Do you want to talk about it?" John offered, kindly handing the still warm mug off to Matilda. She flinched at first, body readying itself for a scolding blow. But she relaxed as soon as she realized John was only returning the cocoa to her.</p>
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  <p>She fearing he would change his mind on a dime she swiftly took the mug, cupping it in her hands. "No. No, thank you." she politely declined taking exactly two steps back from John. Weird, he didn't seem mad about her shortcoming.</p>
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  <p>As she inched toward the corridor, eyes never leaving John, she brought the rim of the, 'Our Clinic Has An Awesome Doctor. True Story.' mug to her lips. Dark, rich and pepperminty the warm hot chocolate coated her tongue thickly before flowing down her throat.</p>
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  <p>"I'm always here for you, if you need me," John whispered, knowing he couldn't hear him already around the corner.</p>
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  <p>Matilda May. John couldn't help but care for the little girl. Not only because she was utterly adorable, but also because there was something so endearing about her in general. A bit rigid around the edges, she was sure a sweet little darling. She was broken and scared, she didn't quite trust him.</p>
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  <p>He was hopeful she'd come around, eventually. He just had to—</p>
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  <p>Matilda poked her head back from round the corner connecting the kitchen and the corridor. "Goodnight John."</p>
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  <p>John's mouth twitched, the corners of his mouth lifted up into a soft smile.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>—give it time.</p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Okay here's the first official chapter. I'll warn you I have a lot of "filler"/character chapters in mind before getting to the actual series episodes. Matilda needs to develop a sound relationship with John before thing get hectic.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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